Thank God for Disney On Ice
by Sherpkat
Summary: Your name is Dave Strider, today is your 18th birthday, and you know that you are forgetting something. The time of the year doesn't matter, the weather is always hot. (A post-sburb encounter between John and Dave)


Your name is Dave Strider, today is your 18th birthday, and you know that you are forgetting something.

The time of the year doesn't matter, the weather is always hot. Faint sounds of churning gears always haunt you when the heat is unbearable. There just seems to be something that hangs on the edge of your consciousness, a deep longing for something you know is there but just can't quite taste yet. When this hits, you always feel on the cusp on it, like you'd be able to figure it out if given the right amount of—

"Catch." A sword hurtles through the air, landing almost soundlessly in your grasp. Bro stands in the doorway, nonchalance hanging around his air like an aroma you just can't wash out, holding two slips of paper in his calloused hands.

"I got you these." he rumbles, strolling over to wave the papers at you. You place the sword on an end table and advance towards him.

"Two tickets to Disney On Ice?" your eyebrows are clearly raised behind the aviators gracing your face.

"I knew you would love them." His stoic face doesn't betray the laughter you're sure is in his eyes. The tickets are in your hands by the time you realize he's flash stepped out, leaving the room feeling particularly empty.

All you have is some poor attempt at brotherly affection layered in irony that you don't even want to decode anymore. The irony annoyed you in your younger days—always questioning your brother's real feelings while simultaneously feigning yours of inadequacy. Then it evolved into a game that was equally played by both parties. But sometime after your 16 birthday, it just got too tiring. Things just never went back to normal after that, and you couldn't ever remember why.

Craig's List is the website you pull up when the computer is fully turned on.

_two disney on ice tickets cheap $70_

_i have two tickets i know you want so contact me to own these front row babies_

_i can mail them meet up or whatever you want, just need these gone quick_

Ad up, you go back to schoolwork, tackling the never ending Calculus problems. Whoever said senior year was a slacker's year never went to your school.

Forty-seven minutes in, the computer dings with a response to your ad.

hey, i actually do want those tickets! :B can we meet up today?

Man, some people work fast. Dreading finishing the problems, you disregard the homework to reply:

_sounds great, and we can meet at the coffee shop on 7th street any time today if you want_

The reply is almost instantaneous.

awesome :B can we meet around 5:00?

The clock reads 3:42, so you can roll with that. You send one quick reply and resume your Calculus.

_sure_

By 4:27 you've finished the homework. Might as well start out to the meet-up. The coffee shop isn't that far by car, but walking is just so much more soothing. You push away from the keyboard, grab the tickets, and shrug on your shoes, barely trying with the laces.

The walk down from the top floor is careening, but the half-working elevator is rarely a safe bet.

Walking down the streets of Houston always makes you miss something you can't place. The heat, while scorching, doesn't seem to be enough. The rumbling cars just don't make the right noises.

The coffee shop light starts to flicker on as you stroll up and you slide your hands into your pockets. It hits you that you never even asked the guy for a description, or gave one yourself. This guy could be a mass murderer for all you know. You stop outside the door, hand on the "push here" sign, for approximately 5.7 seconds before a "fuck it" tumbles out of your mouth. The door is pushed open, bell tingling, and you slide in, walking up to the counter to place your order. The food here is crap, but man, they sure do make a strong coffee. You don't even have to say a word before your order is being made as you hand the cashier exact change. Being a regular has its perks.

You quickly retrieve your coffee and settle in a booth near the back. The shop is fairly old, but it has the relaxed and homely feel that Starbucks just can't give. Chains annoy you anyways.

7 minutes and 23 seconds before the meeting, you decide to shoot the individual (not sure if they're male or female) a message.

_im the dude in aviators and red shirt_

At exactly 5:03 the bell rings as a tall, black haired, glasses wearing kid in a blue shirt stumbles in, all smiles and buck teeth. The door closes behind him, but his hair still gently moves in an unknown wind. Something about him is familiar, somewhere between his gait and the curve of his neck—the what you believe to be an older teenager looks around wildly before settling his eyes on you.

You raise your hand in a come-hither motion, gesturing toward the empty seat in front of you. He happily obliges and slides in the booth, putting his hand out in a formal manner.

"John Egbert the III." he beams as you grasp his hand firmly, but you can't shake this feeling of de-ja-vu. Something is too familiar about this.

"Dave Strider." you drawl out, retracting your hand and placing the tickets on the table.

"I honestly thought you would be some mom who had bad time management and had to sell the tickets because she couldn't take her child to see the show." John chuckles out, his whole face lighting up in the process. A rare smirk crosses yours.

"I'm just glad you're not an axe murder. I don't need them, and I figured someone out there would. But why do you need these exactly?" you wave the tickets in the air, sipping on some coffee.

"I have this friend who would absolutely hate these, which is why I have to get them for her." the mischievous grin cannot be hidden. "Why do YOU have them?"

The smirk straightens out into the perfect poker face. "My bro doesn't understand the concept of quality gifts."

His bubbly laughter tugs at something you can barely feel, like a memory before you could remember-a thought before words.

As his laughter fades away, you get to courage to finally say "You seem so-"

"-familiar?" John finishes. Your eyebrow rises.

"You feel it too?"

"Well, more of an absence of feeling really," he starts, resting his head upon his hand, drawing shapes in the air with the other. "It's like, I know I _should_ know you, but I don't." He grimaces, trying to remember what isn't there. "You get what I mean?"

All you can do is nod your head up and down.

"I mean, it's pretty weird actually. I have this friend I talk to all the time online, and even though we've never met, I still knew what she looked like before she sent a picture. And just today she mentioned how going to see Disney On Ice would be one of the worst things to ever happen to her." John smiles impishly at that. "So, being the great Internet friend I am, I instantly search for some tickets and find you. Seems pretty serendipitous to me." He finishes with a flourish of the hand and pushes his glasses back up his nose.

"Dude, I hope she lives in Texas, because these are local." you flash the address to John. His eyes widen.

"Oh shit," he places both hands on his face in horror. "I am so dumb. She doesn't live anywhere near here." his head slumps down to the table in defeat and you can't hold back the laughter that spills out of you. You've just composed yourself by the time he looks back up.

"Seems like I got Mr. Cool pants to let down his guard." John smirks. You would be glowering, if you weren't being so chill.

"Only someone as derpy as an Egderp would say that John." you retort monotonously. He just guffaws and shows his buck teeth. "Are you sure we haven't met before?"

"Not really." He beams, unhelpfully. His eyes dance back to the tickets. "I, uh, probably can't use those..."

"No worries, these workers are about to get a _huge_ tip." You wink at him from behind your glasses as you draw out the word huge, and you think he gets it by the way he tries (and fails) to stifle his giggles.

"I don't text much, but if you want my Pesterchum-" John visibly perks up.

"You use Pesterchum? I do too!" He bounces like an excited puppy in his seat, the booth squeaking in half second intervals.

You put your hands up in a stop motion. "I know you think I'm cooler than a polar bear drinking coke pirouetting off the handle Egbert, but you're gonna have to calm your tits to hear what I'm putting into the space between your left and right ears." John proceeds to pantomime zipping his lips and eating the key. "Egderp, you can't just zip your lips and then eat the key, it doesn't- you know what, never mind." He has to place a hand over his mouth to stop the giggles. "My chumhandle is turntechGodhead. Think you can handle that?" He enthusiastically nods.

John then unzips his lips to rush out "My chumhandle is ectoBiologist." His enthusiastic smile is damn near contagious, but it's the kind of cold you want to catch.

You stand up as John does. "Well, I hope we can meet again John. You're not half bad." you shake his hand as he laughs at you once again.

"Haha, same here Dave. See you later man." and the strolls out the door, leaving you standing by the table to watch his departure. Bro's crappy gifts seem to have done something right for once.

You place the tickets under a napkin that you wrote "free" on, allow yourself another rare smile, and head on back home. That hole that has haunted you for two years doesn't seem to throb as much as it once did.

Upon heading home, you add him to your chumroll only to see he's not online. After a quick dinner of left-over pizza, you slide into bed and let sleep invade your body.

* * *

A red, rock bed with a broken record on it flashes before your eyes. A land so hot you can barely breathe fills your lungs. A monster with purple dripping down his face yells about miracles. A mirror reflection with lavender eyes winks at you. A wind blows through your hood as a flash a blue speeds by. A green giant roars so loudly you seem to disintegrate and-

You wake covered in sweat. It's 2:47 in the morning, but you don't need a clock to tell you that, you just _know_. With a fuzzy brain, you rub your eyes before placing your shades back on. No use in going back to sleep in this state.

These dreams haunt you almost every night, but the more you think about them, the less you remember. They all run together and just confuse you even more. Luckily, your computer pings to alert you to a new message.

You amble over to the computer and plop down on the rolling chair, typing in your password and checking Pesterchum. Seems like ectoBiologist sent the message.

\- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 2:32 -

EB:hey  
EB:sorry if this bothered you  
EB:just wanted to message you  
TG: _sup_  
EB:dave! why are you awake?  
TG:_i could ask you the same question Egderp_  
EB:i don't sleep much-there's too much on the internet to do!  
TG:_and your real answer is_  
EB:you're no fun :B  
EB:to be honest,  
EB:i get really bad nightmares  
EB:and they never make sense,  
EB:but they feel so real, like it actually happened  
TG:_like a planet made of gears_  
EB:and one made of oil  
TG:_weird creatures with grey skin and horns_  
EB:powers that transcended time and space  
EB:do you ever think that this could be real?

No, stop, you can't go there—you _won't _go there. Bro already spent enough money on you about this. All the therapists told you to stop making up stories, none of them believed you when you said you've died so many times you lost count. They told you to stop lying about a sun that shines green and the sister you never had. This doesn't make sense—it can't make sense. If everyone else says you're wrong, that this never happened, how can it be true?

TG:_yes_

You push back from the computer and stare at what is typed. This stranger—this man you just met—no you didn't just meet him, you know him, and you've known him for a long time but you don't know how. This John is saying the things that everyone told you was a lie. Even Bro didn't want to believe you, but you just couldn't get over his corpse laying pierced on the ground.  
Maybe you truly are crazy.

TG:_i have to go_  
EB:dave, wait

\- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 2:43 -

You crawl back into bed and stare at the ceiling, making shapes in the dark. This John guy is messing everything up.

* * *

When you wake in the morning, you can't decide what John is. You were getting along fairly okay until he showed up. After being labeled as crazy for your entire sixteenth year, you finally got over the elephant in memory room and tried to move on. You went to school, did your homework, kept up on your web comic, and mixed music. Sure, you don't get out much, but not everyone has to be social to be happy. And maybe you don't have too many friends, but who really needs them anyways. Everything was on the road to being normal before Egbert shoved his buck teeth into your life.

Maybe if you just ignored him, deleted him on Pesterchum, changed your chumhandle, things could go back. It wasn't perfect, but at least you weren't being labeled as crazy anymore. People were believing what you said again. As long as you made sure not to mention things you could barely remember, you were doing well. Maybe...

You look at the computer. Another message is waiting.

This could be your chance though. You might finally learn about why everything is so weird, and why you aren't the only one who seems to remember impossible things. To turn this down would be denying yourself the answers you've always wanted. Maybe this could be the truth.

EB:i know you are asleep by now,  
EB:and i know all this sounds so weird an messed up, but i really think this happened dave  
EB:i guess that's all I have to say

\- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 2:58 -

You sit down and begin typing.

\- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 10:16 -

TG:_i have to agree with you_  
EB:dave! i thought for sure you would never respond!  
TG:_i know you just can't get enough of this strider meat_  
EB: :B  
EB:did you want to come over today or something?

You sit there and debate it in your head. Your rational part screams no, but your questioning side, it all but begs you to go.

TG:_sounds cool to me  
_EB:awesome!

John proceeds to give you directions to his house. You quickly scribble it on your hand in a sparkly blue pen (another gift from Bro.)

TG:_be on my way soon_

You let all the air rush out in three and a half seconds. This kid, he—he has to know something. Something about him is just too familiar to have never met before. It's like you two have a connection. Yeah, a connection with a stranger, not weird at all. You know the psychologists would have a field day with this.

You push away from the desk and sort through the messy room to find a pair of black pants and your converse. As you're reaching for one of your esoteric band shirts, a thought hits you. In your dream, you were wearing this shirt, this white and red shirt with a broken record on it. You wonder...

The half open closet door sits quietly, waiting for your decision. You silently drop the band shirt and tread carefully to the closet, opening it fully. It mostly holds your dressier clothes and photography supplies, but you haven't looked through it in ages.

Hesitantly, you push through the clothes to the back of the closet where your older clothes are. The pile isn't very deep, but you toss the ratty shirts and ripped jeans away recklessly. You know it's in here, it has to be.

And there it is. Red sleeves. White body. A broken record.

As you hold the shirt in your hands, you feel like you've worn this before, even though you don't even remember owning it. You stumble out of the hazardous closet to examine the size in the light. You slide it over your head.

The shirt fits a little snugly, which would be a problem if you had any chub, but your tall lean frame just won't keep anything on it. The dual tone pronounces your pale skin and high lights the red in your eyes. You quietly slide on your aviators, grab your keys, and leave your room with an "I'm out." to Bro on the couch.

You get down the stairs and hop in your old, red, beat up pick-up truck that you'll probably never do any real hauling in. You just loved the vintage look and the great price. Glancing at your hand, you mentally map the route, turn up the mix tape in the player, and head out.

This kid better give you some fucking good answers.

* * *

Your name is John Egbert, and you are currently waiting for your new (old?) friend who isn't a forgetful mom to show up. You're also grateful he's not a serial killer.

Standing up from the computer and stretching, you fear you may have made him angry. The kid may not show much on the surface, but you know that he's really just a big softie—wait, you berate yourself. How can you know this guy? You just met him yesterday!

You fall face first on your bed covered in Ghost Busters sheets and grunt. This is just so confusing. How can this kid know anything? Why did you decide to try and buy some stupid tickets for Rose without even looking to see if they were local? Why does this stranger know about things that seem to only haunt your dreams?

The problem really started the day after you turned 16. You woke up, and couldn't remember anything from the past three years. Names, faces, school, nothing. It felt like someone had just taken three years of your life away from you, and they were never going to give them back.

School moved at a pace much too tough for what you didn't know, so your father plucked you out of school and moved you across the country. "A fresh start for a fresh mind" he had said. You went to the doctors, saw all the specialists, and they always just reiterated what the previous said. You're alright. You're fine. Nothing is wrong. Your brain scans are normal. Are you feeling okay? Do you need to see a therapist?

You were not going to see some shrink. But everything was okay for a while. You just ignored what you couldn't remember and worked hard to catch up on what you'd forgotten. With all your diligent studying, you would now be able to apply to any college in the country and get accepted. But it wasn't too long after you stopped seeing doctors when you started getting nightmares.

A land flowing with oil inhabited by tall salamanders. A beautiful girl with long black hair, bright green eyes, large circular glasses, and a sniper gun always in her hand. A man made of pure black stabbing you in the stomach while a girl with grey skin and short white hair bleeds to death beside you. The orange ghost of someone you thought you loved...

Sometimes you'd wake up at the end of a scream, tears rolling down your face, and your father would hold you in his arms and tell you how proud of you he was. You're a man now and you can overcome anything.

And now you have Dave Strider. This kid-man you guess- who seems to have the same problems. He seems so familiar, like you've known him for years. You bet you know things about him without even...

You pick your face off the bed and rush to your desk grabbing a notepad and a pen.

Things About Dave (that I don't know)

_•Hates puppets_

Where did that come from? You shake your head and continue with your list.

_•Loves apple juice_

_•Has many crappy swords_

You put down the pad and back away from the desk. This is too creepy. How do you know your brain isn't just making this up? This could just be your brain trying to find patterns where they don't exist. Maybe you've never really met him before.  
Maybe you met him during the years you forgot.

No, you can't let yourself think that way. This is in no way healthy, and will definitely get you nowhere. Dave could be here any minute, and you have no idea what to say to him.

You head downstairs to find a cake on the counter with some mail and a note from your father.

**SON, I HAD TO GO INTO WORK EARLY, BUT I MADE THIS CAKE FOR YOU. I AM SO PROUD OF YOU SON. YOU WILL GO FAR IN LIFE, ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT I LOVE YOU.  
**

You smile at the sappy note, but frown at the cake. Will he ever learn? The mail holds letters from three colleges wanting you to apply. You haven't been accepted yet and he's already baking cakes. Who is going to eat all of the ones he'll bake then?

You hear a car pull up in your drive way. You quickly rush to the fridge, grab some apple juice, and place it on the counter. The test of all tests. The apple juice.

Your doorbell is sounded as you rush towards the door. Something big is coming; you can feel it everywhere from your bones to the air that rushes around you. This could change everything.

* * *

Your truck grumbles to a stop in from of John's house. The address is correct, but you have the feeling the house should look different-white, not brick-but, this could just be you jumping to conclusions again.

You slide out of the vehicle, stroll up the pathway, and ring the doorbell. You are the picture of calm, it is you.

The door flies open to reveal John with his usual buck toothed smile—stop Dave, you don't know his usual.

"Hey Dave! I'm so glad you decided to come over." his eyes are practically sparkling and it's taking all your inner cool kid to not reference one of Bro's shitty animes.

Then his eyes flit down to your shirt. Something crosses over them and he almost frowns, but then looks right back up at you, smiling again. Silly kid, showing so much with his eyes in 1.3 seconds.

"Why don't you come inside and have some apple juice?" he grasps your hand and yanks you inside toward what you can only guess is the kitchen. You barely have time to pull the door closed behind you.

On the counter, along with some sorted mail, is a bottle of apple juice and a very large cake.

"Woah man, didn't have to go out of your way to thank me for the useless tickets." you joke, sliding onto a barstool. John sticks his tongue out at you.

"My father enjoys baking... A little too much. I've barely applied to college and he's always making celebratory cakes." he eyes the confection like it's going to steal his soul.

"I see you still hate cakes and the delicious varieties thereof," you chuckle, grabbing the apple juice and taking a swig (after smelling it cautiously first. Can't be too careful).

"I see you're still weary about apple juice being piss!" Egbert laughs, sitting on the barstool next to yours.

Then you remember that you don't know him. You wipe your face clean of any emotion and set down the apple juice.

"Looks like I did it again." John mutters, turning his face away from you. You wait for him to continue.

"I don't know how, but it's like we have been here before. Well, not in this situation exactly, but like I know all these things about you, and you know all these things about me, but that can't be true because we've just met, but it is true, and this is just so confusing, and I'm sorry if I'm rambling, it's just..." he trails off and turns back to look at you expectantly.

"It's like we knew each other in another life." you finish.

John nods his head. "Except, maybe it wasn't another life Dave, what if it was THIS life?" His eyes plead for you to agree. You want to, but-

No.

"No." you say out loud and stand up, "This is crazy. I can't handle this. I'm out." and you're at the door quicker than you thought possible, like you flashed there, but John is right behind you, his hand grabbing your shoulder.

"No Dave! Stop, don't back away from this. We both know something, and maybe we can figure this out together!" he is yelling because for some reason it's really loud inside and it's like the air conditioner is on max, but you're 97% sure it's not coming from the house.

"How do I know you're not crazy? How do you know that I'M not crazy?" you scream back at him, one hand on the doorknob, your hair all ruffled from the wind that just keeps getting stronger with the door closed.

"Because," John whispers, and you and barely hear him over all the din, "your name is Dave Strider, mine is John Egbert, and we were a part of something, along with two other people whose names I can't remember, but I know they were girls, and I think one was Rose—but we were there. Somewhere. A world that wasn't ours—many worlds to be exact! And we all died, but that was okay because we got these cool new powers, and I KNOW this because when I'm mad THIS happens." He gestures to the wind whipping around us, making the photos of father and son on the walls shake and rattle.

John takes a deep breath and the wind slowly subsides. He releases your arm as you let go of the door knob.

"I know all this is true, and you know it as well." he's standing there huffing as you turn around to look at him. "Take off your Ben Stiller shades and fucking ANSWER me Strider!"

"How did you know where I got these shades?" you whisper, staring him down behind the tinted glass.

"Because I fucking sent them to you-" he stops, looking at you confused. "I, uh, what?"

"You sent them to me, for one of my birthdays," you finish for John. He looks at you, dumbfounded. You raise your eyebrows enough for him to see over the shades, "You also sent me this shirt. And don't ask me how I know that. I barely remember that year, much less the ones after that."

"Same here." John grumbles, walking to the living room and sitting on the floor where you follow him, still standing. "Can't remember a freaking thing from 13-16. Three years, just gone. Poof. Not mine. In the hands of somebody else."

You sit on the floor across from him, leaning up against the couch. "This is too fucked up. This can't be real. Have you ever even met someone who doesn't think this is crazy?"

"I haven't met her, but I talk to her all the time on Pesterchum. She's loves to psychoanalyze me, and everything else, and I believe she doesn't think I'm crazy. And we've traded pictures and all, so I don't think she's a fake or anything." John huffs out, looked slightly aggravated.

"What's her name?"

"Rose Lalonde." As soon as the name leaves his lips, you're blasted with pictures. This tall, long girl with a short pixie cute, vibrant violet irises, wielding knitting needles like she could take down a monster with them (and you're sure she has.)

"She's tall and lanky, right?" you think aloud, and John nods his head for you to continue. "Short, white/blonde hair, and looks quite a bit like me? And man, this girl sure does love knitting."

John is looking strangely at you now. "Her eyes Dave, what colour are her eyes?"

This you don't want to answer. "I'm not sure man, it's a little fuzzy..." but John isn't taking your bullshit.

"You can remember her favorite hobby and how she could almost be your twin, but not her _eyes_?" he's got you cornered, mentally speaking and by the way he's leaning in closer. "If I say this one thing, would you believe me? Would you agree that what I am implying might possibly be true? That maybe we both aren't just making this all up?"

Abortabortabort. Get away from the intrusive kid. Your rational side is begging you to stop this here and now, walk out and forget his name, but you _can't_. You have to know. You nod your head slowly.

"Now Dave, what colour are Rose's eyes?" John is staring at where he thinks your eyes are behind your glasses and he's pretty damn close.

"Violet." you mumble, unable to look away from his piercing blue eyes.

"And yours?" he asks, reaching a hand up to grasp the rim of your glasses. You sit there and wait for him to act.

"Mine are..." you look down, hoping he won't notice but knowing he will. He takes a deep breath and you can just feel him staring into your soul.

"Red." he says simply, then pulls the glasses off you. His eyes are even _more_ blue than what you thought. You could spend hours just looking at them, admiring them, and you feel like you have—

"Oh no, watch out for demon boy!" you try to chuckle, but it gets coked about halfway out. Your face feels so naked without their protective layer from the world. You look at John's hand, where your shades are, and back to him. "And you know this because..."

"I know you." he says simply, folding the glasses and handing them back to you. You clip them to your shirt as he leans back, giving you breathing space. You almost wish he hadn't backed off, but you don't want to consider why.

"And now you have that look in your eyes where—" he clamps his hands over his mouth and stares at you wide-eyed.

You, not being one to let the upper hand slide past you, retort "What face Egderp?" John just shakes his head. "Come on John, you can't just only half way something. Spit it out man."

He takes a hand slightly away to mumble "I don't know if you want to know Dave..." he grimaces, "you might not like it."

The way John is looking at you now is so familiar it can't be a part of your imagination. You've seen this look before, and you're 99% sure you know what it means.

You lean in closer, "anything you say can't be crazier that what's already been mentioned."

John leans in, placing the hands that were once covering his face onto the floor to give him more leverage. "I don't know man, this is some far out shit. I'm not sure I believe it myself."

You chuckle at that, only inches away from those gorgeous blues. "You can believe in a game were we all go to alternate worlds and meet aliens over liking boys? Not a homosexual my ass."

"What?" John's eyebrows shoot up, but you've closed the distance and you aren't stopping. Your lips land upon his, your hands reaching up to grab his face. He's shocked at first, but then he returns the kiss with more passion than you thought possible.

And that's when it all clicks. The game. The sessions. The trolls, all 12. The girls. The sprites. The dead parents—everything.

You lean back and open your eyes, staring at him. You open your mouth and—

"Sburb." falls out of his. "I remember." You snatch his glasses and place them out of the way on the floor.

"And don't you ever forget." you almost growl before pressing your lips to his once again.

You are Dave Strider, barely 18, and even though things aren't perfect, you've finally found what you were forgetting. You are so glad for Disney on Ice.


End file.
